Last weekend I took a trip down memory lane. I visited the Norfolk village where, back in the 1980s, my husband and I bought a holiday cottage. We’d travel up there from London most weekends with our two young sons. That all ended with our divorce in 1992. Soon afterwards the cottage was sold, and I hadn’t been to the area since. Curious now to see whether the village had changed, I headed for the A11.  

The Green party tried to get me arrested

The monstering of Boy George

Britain’s universities are feeding their own destruction

During the journey I reflected on those distant days. The cottage hadn’t been my idea. My husband was keen to have a rural bolt hole, but I’m a city person through and through, and always felt my real life was ‘on hold’ during those Norfolk weekends. I found the long drives there and back a real chore, and invariably we’d forget what we had left in Norfolk, what we needed to take, there was always something that wasn’t where it should be … yes, I know: First World problem.  

The bigger problem was that we weren’t exactly welcome there. As second homeowners from London, we were blamed for pricing locals out of the market, and I felt guilty about that. But at least we gave work to some of the villagers! A cheerful woman called Queenie kept the cottage clean and tidy for us, and we hired the avuncular, retired Tom to take care of the garden. He regaled us........

© The Spectator